Distraction
by Demon In The Box
Summary: This sudden awareness of his physical appeal was more than a nuisance; it was fast becoming a liability, a daily distraction. It wasn't that she'd never noticed that he was attractive; it was just that after they'd first landed she was occupied with other, more important matters...


He was at the north edge of the wall when she found him, bellowing orders as usual.

Clarke chuckled softly to herself. Just call him Bellow-my instead of Bellamy; hardly anyone would notice the difference, and it was far more appropriate, considering.

"I WANT TO SEE THIS GAP CLOSED BY SUNDOWN," he was presently commanding, striding back and forth like an army general inspecting the (lackluster) troops, hands on his hips, generous mouth twisted down at the corners in his usual expression of displeasure, his shoulders and back taut and unyielding. As he paused to inspect the work the team had completed on the support pillars, the weakening sunlight cast him in gold, and Clarke paused, struck by the picture he presented.

A tall form, clad in blacks and blues, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist, lean hips and legs, . When he raised one arm and canted his hips slightly, leaning the bulk of his weight on one leg, she was suddenly and forcefully reminded of Michelangelo's David. It was almost a perfect match, barring the nudity.

A blush warmed her face, and she turned herself away for a moment, cursing her unwelcome (and frankly unnecessary) reaction. She took a deep breath and let it out. Then another.

_Damn_.

This sudden awareness of his physical appeal was more than a nuisance; it was fast becoming a liability, a daily distraction. It wasn't that she'd _never_ noticed that he was attractive; it was just that after they'd first landed she was occupied with other, more important matters, like acquiring food and supplies, surviving a deadly attack by an unseen enemy, or watching an egotistical, power-hungry jerk with a silver tongue sway the masses with a few well-chosen words and easy charisma, creating chaos when she wanted order, dissention when she needed unity, and emotion when she desired rationality.

And yes. She had noticed, even then, in some distant and shuttered part of her mind, (for the majority was occupied with survival) that wild, unruly hair and those dark, heated eyes, the smooth baritone that seemed to skate down her spine like an electric current every time he opened his mouth to speak…

She let out a shaky breath and closed her eyes, willing them away, these inconvenient, distracting thoughts. Ignoring the weak, trembling ache in her chest and legs, she raised a hand to her forehead and held it there a moment, checking for sign of a fever. Perhaps she was ill, and this was the cause of her current distress; bacterial infection brought about an increase in temperature and feelings of weakness and fatigue in the chest and extremities. It could just as easily be an illness, and she'd misread the symptoms.

_Come on, Clarke_, she admonished herself, _snap out if it! Now is _not_ the time_…

She opened her eyes, turning on her heel and searching for Bellamy, only to find that he wasn't there. A work team was still at the wall, anchoring support beams in the ground before they started the work of attaching the wooden and metal sheets, but Bellamy wasn't anywhere in sight.

Where had he gone?

"Miller, see to it that they get the main section in place and upright before dark…"

_There_.

He and Miller were standing at the base of the drop ship ramp, talking, heads bent together. At the conclusion, Miller nodded sharply and strode away to his duty, ever the faithful soldier. She was surprised he didn't throw in a little salute now and then.

Smiling at the thought, she almost forgot what she had wanted to talk to Bellamy about in the first place, and now that he was striding away in the direction of his tent, she took off after him in an effort to catch up.

"Bellamy!" she called out mid-jog, and he paused and looked back over his shoulder at the sound, a frown creasing his brow before clearing the moment he recognized her. She was so preoccupied with her determination to talk to him that she missed these changing expressions and his weary sigh, his obvious fatigue, his impatience.

"Hey there, Princess. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He spoke with the usual affectionate sarcasm, wincing only slightly when he turned his head a bit to look at her, raising a hand to the back of his neck to rub at the kinks there.

_Damn_, he was beat, and filthy as fuck from working on the wall all day. He didn't really want to deal with any logistical problems now, but whenever Clarke sought him out it was usually something important, and that pretty much meant that it had to be dealt with now rather than later. Steeling himself for the coming encounter, he waited until she caught up to him, no longer surprised at the sudden feeling of contentment that swept through him whenever she stood at his side, like she was supposed to be there, had always been there…

He shook his head ruefully. God knows when he'd suddenly become so accustomed to her; she was such a bossy little bitch it was a miracle he'd ever come to _tolerate_ her let alone—

He cut off that thought before it's completion. _Eyes forward, Blake_.

Clarke drew breath, seemed to choose her next words carefully.

"You can't cut rations."

Or not. That was his Princess. All business and no pleasure.

That last thought set off a firestorm of disturbing images in his mind, involving a soft mouth and tangled golden hair, and he swallowed thickly before turning on his heel and resuming his walk to his tent, knowing she would follow him because she had that tone in her voice, that Bellamy-I-Have-A-Bone-To-Pick-With-You voice, and standing out here wasn't gonna get him any closer to his tent. He was tired, that's all, and fatigue combined with a little…dry spell…was playing havoc with his mind in the worst way. Time to go to bed…

He closed his eyes at _that_ turn of phrase, ignoring the pulse between his legs that demanded he do just that, preferably with company. Very specific company.

"Too late," he answered curtly, walking quickly toward his tent. He needed to wash his face, badly, because he could literally feel the dirt from the day's work coating his skin in a fine layer. "Already done. They knew the consequences for tardiness. I can't have it happen again. Punctuality for guard duty is a supreme priority, Clarke."

By this time they had reached his tent, and he paused while he lifted the flap to the entrance, holding it up and open for her so she could step inside, hardly aware that he had done so, or that he had done many times before.

Sweeping past him with her usual haughty gait she strode to the middle of his tent, stopping near the center pole and turning to face him, arms crossed beneath her breasts, brows bent in frustration, mouth closed in a thin line. 

He did not, in any way, notice how the gesture parted the collar of her Henley so that it dipped low enough show cleavage. Nor did he notice the creamy (and probably impossibly soft) skin that adorned said cleavage.

_Nope._

"So is nutrition, and adequate caloric intake," she answered, immediately continuing their conversation as if there had been no interruption. "You can't have an effective guard of _any_ kind if he or she is malnourished—"

Bellamy heaved a sigh. _Now_ she got his back up. He was too tired to argue with her tonight, or any other night, really. Couldn't she just once say: _Yes, Bellamy, I agree. _Or:_ You're right, Bellamy, as always. _Or possibly: _Fuck me, Bellamy. Fuck me hard._

He shivered at the last, shaking his head as if to clear it of a swirling fog before he walked over to his work table and the water basin perched on top. Time for some cold water to the head, because this shit had to stop, and stop _now_.

"I can't have them lapsing into bad habits that only snowball later and get out of hand. They need to respect my rules and step up or else there's chaos—"

He bent over the basin and scooped a large handful of water into his hands and splashed it on the back of his neck, bracing himself for the frigid shock of the water as it spilled over his skin and down his back, wetting his shirt and the ends of his hair. He splashed some more on his face and another handful over his hair, scrubbing out the grit before he threw his head back and shook out the drops, raising his eyes to meet Clarke's at last, now that he had the icy feel of the water to ground him.

But she didn't look pissed any more. She looked…distracted?

"Clarke?" he prompted, concerned at her silence, at her wide blue eyes and slightly parted mouth. What was the matter with her?

"R-rations—you can't—" she stumbled over her words for a moment, attempting to gather enough breath to steady herself. What the _hell _had they been talking about, precisely? She struggled to remember, but it was crowded out of her mind by one single, insignificant, but somehow overwhelming fact that wiped out all else before it:

He was…wet.

His inky hair was swept back from his forehead, the water trapped in the strands pulsing silver and white under the fading light of the setting sun filtering through the open top of his tent. She was standing close enough to notice that his thick, dark lashes were star-like spokes above deep, heated eyes. Eyes set above a lush, generous mouth, lips wet from the water sliding over his face and neck, water that he licked away instinctively as she watched, turning his mouth a deep, ruddy pink from the pressure.

Longing, swift and fierce, tore through her. Her mouth was suddenly ravenous, thirsty for the taste of his. She wanted to suckle the pillow-soft push of his bottom lip hard enough to color it cherry red, bite into that tender flesh with her teeth just hard enough to draw blood only to sip it away, to drink him and taste him and ravish his mouth until it burned like it was branded from her kisses and hers alone, because no one else would ever touch him again.

She actually took a step towards him, swaying unsteadily from the force of her desire, as if drunk with the thought itself. Her arm shot out and reached for the relative stability of the pillar at the center of his tent, bracing herself against the cold steel pipe and she fought to stay on her feet.

Bellamy stepped forward and caught her elbow, true concern bending his brow and darkening his eyes as he looked her over.

"Clarke? Are you all right?"

Standing this close she could almost feel the vibration of his deep voice skate down her spine like a lightening strike, caressing the small of her back before it settled nice and cozy in the tangle of her thighs. The pads of his fingers where they touched her skin left heat in their wake. She started to tremble from the sensation.

Bellamy raised a hand to rest the back of his knuckles against her forehead, feeling her brow for signs of a temperature, and she closed her eyes, the better to block him out and regain her composure. This was…this wasn't fair.

"Hey, Princess."

His voice was soft, oh so soft, and close to her ear; she was starting to regret ever following him into his tent. She needed to leave now, or she was going to do something she would later regret, and she couldn't afford that kind of mistake. She'd already made that mistake once, let her feelings and her need carry her away from reason and caution, and she'd had her heart broken. She couldn't do it again—

She opened her eyes and took a step back, started to pull her elbow from his grasp, but he pulled back at the last moment, trapping her there in the grip of his fingers, eyes tracing over her face in gentle scrutiny. He took a step closer and bent his face forward, now only a breath away from her mouth, her lips. She drew in a shaky breath and without her consent her eyes dropped to his mouth, tracing its perfect bow before she lifted them back to his eyes, where a new light, a sudden understanding shone in their black depths, and his mouth tilted upwards in amusement. Smug, conceited amusement.

Oh _shit_. She was completely, royally screwed.

"What's the matter Clarke?" he asked softly, _seductively_, damn him. "You sick or something?" She could almost hear the dark laughter in his voice. His fingers started to sweep gently, almost hesitantly over her skin, his thumb settling for a moment in the divot of her elbow before moving higher, smoothing along her upper arm and under the sleeve of her shirt in a whisper glide of fingers over skin. She started to tremble from the sheer, sweet pleasure of his soft caress, her pulse pounding so heavily in her throat she was almost sure he could hear it.

This could _not_ happen.

Gathering all her strength, she pulled back from him, breaking the contact, dropping her eyes from the magnetic pull of his own.

"Yeah," she answered finally, taking another step backward, needing to put distance and much needed space between them. "I think I might. We can continue this discussion later…when I'm…feeling better."

When she finally looked up to meet his eyes she was met with a flat, hardened gaze, suddenly empty and lacking any kind of warmth. All the softness was gone from his face, his eyes, and in their place was something much like anger, and it shocked her to see it there.

Wait…he was…_angry_ with her?

"Okay…" he said after a beat, his voice as flat and cold as his eyes. "That's the way you want to play it, Princess, that's the way it'll be. Now get out of my tent and let me get some sleep. We'll talk about alternative punishments for tardiness tomorrow."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned away from her and walked back to his worktable, stopping before his basin of water. He crossed his arms and gripped the edges of his shirt, pulling it over his head and away from his body in one swift motion, and Clarke could not stop herself from looking, looking her fill at the hard lines and ridges of his chest and abdomen, the thick mass of his upper arms, his wide shoulders, the lean waist and smooth, honey colored skin.

He stopped for a moment, sensing her gaze, and actually lifted the fabric of his shirt before his bared chest, as if to cover himself. His gaze, when he threw it her way, was hard, defensive.

"You need something else?"

It was the final challenge, perhaps, his last attempt at asking her the question he wouldn't ask outright and she was too afraid to answer. She was in deep, deep trouble.

Because her mouth opened and answered him without her permission, before she even had time to think about what she was saying, and how he would take it.

"Yes…I do…" yet even as she said this she was stepping backwards, out of his tent, "and I might find myself asking for it…sooner or later."

Without waiting for his reply, she turned on her heel and left his tent, almost running towards her own.

She was in deep, deep trouble.


End file.
